


Med Students Can Be Dangerous, Too

by AngeNoir



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greasers, BAMF John, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 19:11:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had really hoped he could clean up the blood before Sherlock came home. Sherlock, meanwhile, had no idea John could actually make others bleed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Med Students Can Be Dangerous, Too

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lizzieborednow](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lizzieborednow).



> A fill for lizzieborednow's prompt:
> 
> "Dating Sherlock was never easy. The crime scenes were fine; it was the fighting John had a problem with, especially the fact that no matter how many times John proved he was a competent fighter Sherlock’s possessive nature refused to let John help. When John wins a fight of his own Sherlock is mad, and relived to have him home safe. Sherlock has one thing on his mind: confirming John’s in one piece and making sure John realizes how much he cares and why he shouldn’t go looking for trouble again. _Possessive Sherlock, top Sherlock, med student or Doctor John, nerd John, BAMF John_ "

John winced as he heard the door open and slam close. Well, Sherlock was home now. John hadn’t gotten rid of the bloody clothes or had time to stitch up the shallow gash on his ribs, but did it really matter in the long term? Sherlock, with his quick eyes and quicker mind, would have sussed out the story.

Then again, he also might have been _told_ the story. After all, John had been intended to be a trap for Sherlock, so certainly there would have been some kind of ransom note or threat.

Taking in a deep, shaky breath, he looked up into the cracked and old mirror over the rust-stained porcelain sink. He had a real shiner, a split lip, and split knuckles. He was favoring one side more than the other, and he knew if he walked, he’d walk with a limp. His hair, at least, no longer had blood in it – he’d washed it, and combed it into a semblance of order. He’d taken off the sweater-vest, but his button-up shirt still had flecks of blood on it at the cuffs and shoulders. His pressed and ironed khaki pants were torn at both knees, dirtied, and had blood on one knee.

Time to face the music.

With a sigh, he turned to the door, even as there was a vicious knocking noise on the old wooden structure. “Watson!” Sherlock yelled, voice tight and low with vicious purpose. “Watson, you better answer me or I’m breaking this door in!”

Better to play this off as calm and collected as possible, especially if Sherlock was upset enough to call John by his last name. Heaving a put-upon sigh, John unlocked the door – just to have Sherlock force it open, nearly braining John. “Really, Sherlock, is all this necessary?” he asked in a carefully bored and laconic voice.

Immediately, Sherlock pushed past John, into the bathroom, eyes sweeping over the floor and the general state of the bathroom before latching onto John’s form, cataloguing everything visible and most likely quite a few things that were _not_ visible. John did his best not to roll his eyes.

“James did this to you, or he ordered it,” Sherlock said, voice deep and guttural.

“Hmm,” John murmured, moving back to the sink and cleaning up the few splatters of blood that were still on the edges.

Sherlock grabbed John’s shoulder, pushing him against the now-closed bathroom door and crowding close to John, the small medicine cabinet falling open at the force. John winced in pain and then glowered at Sherlock. For his part, Sherlock seemed remorseful, though unwilling to verbally acknowledge the pain he had just caused John. Instead, Sherlock growled, “Five assailants. Two had knives that they used in the altercation, and the others used their fists. Four of the five, if not all of them, were taller than you. Where are you hurt?”

“Sherlock,” John began.

“ _Where are you hurt?!_ ”

Meeting Sherlock’s eyes steadily, John began undoing his shirt. “One of them got me in the ribs. Another wrenched my leg, and I’ll definitely be feeling it a while. But most of it, the blood and all of it, _is not mine_. Alright, Sherlock?”

Sherlock seemed oblivious to John’s words – his hands shoved John’s fingers out of the way and began removing John’s clothing entirely. Knowing how possessive – and worried – Sherlock could get, John let his hands fall to his side and looked up at the sky for patience. His gaze snagged on the medicine cabinet, and the bandages there, and he pulled out the first-aid kit he had put in place mostly for Sherlock.

“You aren’t supposed to go _looking_ for trouble!” Sherlock growled, dragging at John’s pants.

“It wasn’t like I walked up to the fellas and asked to be dragged into a warehouse and threatened to stay out of the case you’ve taken on,” John huffed.

Flinging the khaki material to the side, Sherlock stared at John’s legs: the purpled knee, the scrapes on each kneecap, a light slice on his left thigh that John honestly hadn’t noticed before. Then Sherlock’s eyes traveled up to John’s bare torso, at the deeper gash over his ribs, the bruises scattered over his torso, and then up even further to meet John’s eyes.

“I’m fine,” John murmured.

Sherlock slowly stood up, placing gentle hands on John’s shoulders. “You’re barely hurt. Well, you’re hurt, but not that badly, at least. Greg found you in time?”

John blinked at Sherlock in confusion. “What? No, no one found me.”

For a long moment, Sherlock stared at John, and then lifted John’s hands up to his face, taking in the bruised and battered knuckles. “You took care of all five yourself,” he said slowly, and there was something in his voice that gave John pause.

“Yes, I did,” he replied, a bit annoyed that Sherlock hadn’t thought he could. “Honestly, Sherlock, you haven’t needed to fight my fights since high school, and I think I’ve proved that quite a bit since then. I’m a bit of a quick study, if you haven’t noticed, and I certainly have had motivation to learn since you come back home so often beat up yourself. You’ve been in enough dangerous situations to know that by now, I would think.”

Carefully, as if John’s hands were made of glass, Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s knuckles on his right, then his left, hands, and then stepped in, crowding John back against the door. “You never cease to amaze me, doctor,” he murmured, pressing soft kisses to John’s ear.

“Not a doctor,” John mumbled, automatically, flushing at the praise.

“Nonsense, John, you’re smarter than all those idiots in med school put together,” Sherlock said, in such a dismissive tone that John couldn’t help but quirk a smile up at Sherlock. Sherlock, however, was still focused on John’s wounds. “They left marks on you.”

With a sigh, John wiggled free of Sherlock’s grip and moved to stand in front of the sink again, picking up the bandages to wrap his knee and cover the slice on his leg. “An inevitable side effect of a tussle, Sherlock. You’ve come home often enough with wounds yourself, and don’t think for a minute that you fool me with your ‘motorcyclist accident’ excuse.”

“You don’t understand. You’re _mine_ to mark,” Sherlock rumbled, his sudden heat against John’s back making John squeak a bit in surprise, mouth pressed against John’s throat. With a shivery sigh, John relaxed, let his hands fall to the edge of the sink, and looked into the dingy mirror to see Sherlock’s ice-grey eyes boring into his through the mirror’s reflection.

Perhaps it was leftover adrenaline from the fight – perhaps it was just plain recklessness, the kind of recklessness that John’s sister complained about all the time now, blaming Sherlock for John’s uncharacteristic boldness. Whatever it was, it had the corner of John’s mouth slipping up slyly, and he deliberately pressed back against Sherlock’s groin.

Sherlock was wearing his denim, the rough pants that protected his legs from gravel on the road, and still had his leather jacket on over the white cotton undershirt. Meanwhile, John had nothing but his boxers and socks on, everything else stripped off by Sherlock’s competent hands searching for wounds and checking to make certain John was still in one piece. It meant that John could feel the roughness pressed against his ass – and though it was difficult for him to feel Sherlock’s groin, he could still _feel_ Sherlock grow excited as he rocked back provocatively.

Sherlock swore and dropped his head to John’s shoulder. Reflexively, one hand came up and clamped on John’s hip, even as he mumbled, “I shouldn’t. You’re injured.”

“This? Honestly, Sherlock, you’ve had worse and still insisted on a tumble in the sheets before. And the downstairs neighbors are out. In fact, I believe, only old Mrs. Hudson’s still in the building, and she always watches her programs at this time.” John paused, reveling in that freedom, in knowing that they wouldn’t have to be particularly quiet or gentle so as not to alert the neighbors to their less-than-socially-acceptable relationship.

Sherlock lifted his head, staring at John in the mirror again, even as John licked his lips and slid a hand behind him to curl fingers under the waistband of Sherlock’s denim. “You can make me as loud as you want,” he whispered, and that was it, Sherlock growled and then jerked John’s boxers down, hastily undoing the fly on his pants.

Reaching up into the medicine cabinet, John pulled out the tube of Surgilube they used as additional lubricant to ease the way, and the lubed condom packets on the highest shelf. None too soon – Sherlock snatched one of the packets that had fallen from John’s hasty grab and shoved it on, even as John rocked against Sherlock’s groin. Then Sherlock squeezed out a generous dollop of the lube and began working his fingers into John.

With a deep groan, John leaned forward, bracing himself on the edge of the sink, head down and panting as he thrust his ass out and spread his legs (as much as he could, considering Sherlock didn’t get his boxers all the way off and they tangled at John’s knees) to give Sherlock more room to work. Sherlock was hasty, sloppy, something John had never thought to associate with Sherlock, but he was also far more possessive and dominant, gripping John’s hip, sucking hickeys down John’s spine. John grunted when Sherlock worked a third finger in, and immediately Sherlock was running his free hand over John’s thigh and belly, soothing and mumbling words that John couldn’t really make out.

“C’mon,” John gasped, wiggling his ass a bit to make the boxers fall a bit more past his knees and give him a bit more space to spread his legs. He dropped his upper body a bit, braced his forearms instead of his palms against the sink, and looked up in the mirror, his desperation and desire clear. Sherlock’s eyes flickered from John’s ass to John’s eyes in the mirror, and they were hot, pinpricks of possession and utter concentration. “C’mon, Sherlock, I can take it. You know I can.”

Sherlock licked his lips, and he was riding the edge of control. It was something amazing to see, because it normally took so much more to push Sherlock to this point, and John tried desperately to hold onto his own control even as Sherlock slipped a fourth finger inside, stretching, the burn making John gasp and drop his head low. Then a finger skipped over John’s prostrate and John mewled, thrusting his ass back in mute plea.

There was a ragged laugh from behind him, and then the crinkle of an opened condom. “You’re _mine_ ,” Sherlock hissed, and bucked his hips, slid in to the hilt.

John _keened_.

“ _Mine_ ,” Sherlock snarled again, dark and possessive, and long fingers buried into the blond flyaway mess of John’s hair to jerk John’s head up, force him to stare into the mirror. There he saw himself, flushed pink with arousal, stripped bare, limbs trembling, and behind him was Sherlock, fully dressed, leather jacket bracketing his lanky frame, the rough denim chafing the backs of John’s thighs. “No one else puts their mark on you. No one else can _dare_.”

“Yours,” John gasped mindlessly, writhing on Sherlock’s dick, hands going desperately to his erection. He got in a few tugs before the hand in John’s hair disappeared, and reappeared to grab John’s wrist in a punishing grip.

“No,” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear, voice husky. “You’re going to come just from my cock in that tight hole of yours. No touching.”

John let out a shaky gasp, gaze blurred and unfocused, too caught up in the feel of Sherlock pounding into him to focus in on anything else. When Sherlock shifted, his free hand moving from John’s hip to the small of John’s back, forcing John down, John whined and then _screamed_ as Sherlock hit in perfectly. Behind him, Sherlock growled in triumph and slammed forward again, hard enough to knock John’s head against the mirror, only John didn’t care because Sherlock was hitting all the right places, stroking in all the right ways, and he couldn’t keep himself from writhing against the porcelain sink, his dick hitting painfully into the edge.

Sherlock’s mouth moved to the back of John’s neck, biting hard, and John moaned. “That’s it,” Sherlock purred, dragging out so slowly it was almost tortuous, “you’re _mine_ , John, and no one else is allowed to mark you like this.” Another bite, and Sherlock’s hips thrust forward again, the bite of his zipper digging into John’s thigh and the sides of Sherlock’s jacket brushing John’s hips. The hand gripping John’s wrist slid up John’s arm, up to John’s head, burying in the hair there and pulling John’s head back. “Come for me, John,” Sherlock growled, and he pumped in again and again. “ _Come_.”

With a wail, John found his body seizing up, doing just that, his release pulsing from his untouched cock, his body stiffening as flashes of light sparked behind screwed-shut eyes.

He must have faded out, because the next thing he knew the water was running and he opened his eyes to realize Sherlock must have dragged him back, because he was leaning against Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock was awkwardly wetting a hand towel and cleaning up John’s groin and the pipe system beneath the sink, trying not to jostle John all that much. John was also missing his boxers – not his socks, though.

John hummed in pleasure and stretched in Sherlock’s grip, reveling in the feel of his aches – both good and bad – because they meant he had had a pretty fucking awesome day.

Immediately, Sherlock shifted to look at John more fully, his eyes flickering over John’s body. “You are not hurt,” he said quietly, but there was enough uncertainty there to make John smile and bring up a hand to pat Sherlock’s cheek.

“No, I’m not,” he murmured. “I think I can even stand, so you can let go of me.”

Gingerly, Sherlock propped John upright, and yeah, John’s knees were wobbly from the intense fuck (and one was pained from the earlier fight), but John kept himself upright, even grabbed up the bandages and sloppily put them on his wounds. Sherlock, meanwhile, was on his knees under the sink to try and get cum out of the grout.

“Not one of our best ideas,” John said lazily, sinking down to sit on top of the toilet and watch Sherlock. Truthfully, he just wanted to sleep, wanted to sprawl out on their bed and cuddle close to Sherlock – but it _was_ the middle of the day, and Sherlock hadn’t solved his most recent case, at least not to John’s knowledge.

Sherlock looked up at John, squinting viciously in the late afternoon light that slanted in from the small window. “It was an _excellent_ idea,” he replied haughtily, and then his voice changed, became quieter and less certain. “You – no one gets to touch you except me.”

“No one did touch me,” John pointed out. “I strongly dissuaded them from doing so.”

Apparently giving up the cleaning job as lost, Sherlock stood, shucking his jacket, his denim, and his boxers to dump them on the bathroom floor. “As to that. I didn’t know you could defend yourself.”

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. “The days in which I needed you to swoop in and save me from bullies are long gone, you know. And I’ve joined you on enough dangerous cases to know how to defend myself if it comes down to it.”

“ _Five_ people, John.”

At that, John couldn’t help it; he smiled smugly. “That’s right.”

For a moment, Sherlock just stood there, shaking his head slightly, and then he bent down and kissed John, slowly, gently, intimately. John felt his softened dick twitch, but it was too soon, and really, the kiss was enough.

Pulling away, Sherlock offered John his hand. “Let’s get you to bed, my doctor,” Sherlock murmured.

“You’ll be there?” John asked, though he didn’t hesitate before taking Sherlock’s hand and standing upright.

Sherlock led John into the bedroom. “Of course, John. Where else would I be?”


End file.
